


The Breath of Life

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [266]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: First In A Very Long Time Kiss, M/M, Memories, Reboot of the Riverbank Scene in Winter Soldier, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 20:58:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18972736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: You pull him out of the water. There is water in his lungs. You must pull it out of him, too.





	The Breath of Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crowgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/gifts).



> As Crowgirl pointed out, Bucky's got the perfect excuse to kiss Steve on that damned riverbank. So why doesn't he?

You pull him out of the water. There is water in his lungs. You must pull it out of him, too. Your hands on his chest, compress; your mouth on his: breath, breath. He tastes of copper and muddy water. But he breathes. He breathes.

You turn his head as water rushes out and when he coughs--a good sign for living--he makes a sound of pain. This twists something in you, this sound, twists and makes you linger in the dirt by his side when the cold part of you that is not you, that is, is telling you to climb to your feet, _soldat_ , and march away.

He coughs again. There is not so much water. But the sound of pain is much louder; he is injured, this one. You injured him. You are the reason there's blood.

You touch the star on his chest, assess: feel the stuttering beat of his heart. It feels like a wheel gliding down a mountain, this muscle, beneath your hand, the hard stretch of his suit: it picks up speed, it remembers how to run, and you are certain of it now that whoever this man is, he will live.

Then there are fingers on your wrist, a grip; how can it be that strong so fast?

“Bucky.”

 _Move!_ , the _soldat_ inside you screams. But your knees remain in the dirt.

His eyes find yours. Pale now, they are, not quite so blue. But the fire they hold is the same, the certainty, the--you can feel your brain stutter, searching for connections long broken--the undefinable thing that is also there when this man looks at you.

“Hey, jerk,” the man says. His voice is hoarse, a dead river bed. “It really is you, isn’t it?”

Sometimes, when the confusion in your head is too much, when there is too much information or too much time--when they are foolish enough to give you precious minutes to think--it is only action that stops the madness, the terrible winds of fear that batter your thoughts: the pull of a trigger. The slice of a throat. The press of a button and the sickly sweet scent of smoke.

Here, on this bank beside a muddy river, it is the same. You look at him and it is too much. You are touching him and he is touching you and it is too much. The air around you is still, only the sounds of the water and faraway cars, and you tremble. You are overrun.

So you pitch like a tree in a maelstrom and you find his mouth again and this time, it is he who gives you the breath of life, copper and saltwater and all.

“Steve,” you say in his face, the word a world of discovery. “You’re Steve.”

Another sound of pain, one you can taste, and then his hand is in your hair, moving through the wet of it, weak.

“Bucky,” he says again, his talisman. “I'm Steve and you’re Bucky. That's--that's just how it works.”

You kiss his cheek, your fingers flexing over his star, his heart, and there are memories now, flickering, far-away, like a film projected down a long hall. The feel of his skin against yours, the way you feel when he speaks your name: these were once yours, everyday. Now, time is a rubber band, a trap; how long has it been? How long?

Perhaps it is better that you don't know.

“You’re hurt,” you say. “And they will be looking. It is important we move.”

Steve, he nods. You know he understands this. He is a soldier as pragmatic as you. But what comes out of his mouth is: “Mmm hmm. But kiss me again first.”

“Always one more,” you say, for some reason. “It is always like that with you, isn’t it?”

He makes a sound of pain again, but different this time. His hand tries to tighten in your hair. “Maybe if you didn’t spoil me, Barnes, I wouldn’t get so greedy, huh? Basically, this all comes back to you.”

You know these words. You used to. Now you will do so again.

“Put your arms around my neck,” you tell this man, the love of a life you can barely remember. “I will lift you, hmm? And then perhaps we will see.”

He pulled you out of the water, the ice you have drowned in. There is ice in your mind, buried deep. But as you lift him from the mud, as his battered lips open under yours, you think if anyone can draw it from you, the poison of your past, it’s him, it’s him. It’s Steve.

**Author's Note:**

> No, I haven't abandoned yesterday's silver fox Tony MM, but I rewatched Winter Soldier last night and woke up with this fic ready to come out. It was either put this down or scream about Endgame and it's much too early in the morning to be mad.


End file.
